


walking like a lucky charm

by girljustdied



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 21:34:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17774597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girljustdied/pseuds/girljustdied
Summary: to the end of the earth.





	walking like a lucky charm

**Author's Note:**

> prompts were "anything," "clean," "heaven," "shower," "sober."

“Love you,” boys huff and puff into her skin.

Love doesn’t blow her apart like a dandelion. 

When he bothers, Cook has a way with her body that makes it tremble, exposing the fact that they aren’t solid matter at all but a collection of violent, vibrating atoms. They skid and drag against each other no matter how slick with sweat. 

“You love me,” she laughs with an easy confidence. Less like laughing and more like breathing. Everyone loves her.

And Cook loves everything.

“Got you one better.” Fingers curling around the scrap of knickers that covers her cunt and twisting the material, his knuckles brush against her. Doesn’t elaborate.

Rocking together, “What’ve you got?”

“Don’t hate you.” His mouth on the outer edge of her eyebrow, voice so close it could be sounding out from inside her skull, “Fuckin’ hate everyone.”

Bruised up and sore and with nowhere to go, he tells her: “Fuckin’ hate everyone.”

She doesn’t believe him. She’ll tell him so. Another time.

Dirt crusts under her fingernails. She paints them a sunny yellow that she can still see the filth through. She paints them black. Picks at the polish, the little flecks like ashes.

“I don’t want you anymore,” she says. “Cook, are you listening?”

He hums an assent. “Yeah, sure, all right. So?”

“So nothing,” she answers from the straddle over his lap. “Just thought you should know.”

He guffaws. She can feel the rattling of his body at the base of her throat. Makes her exhales shake. 

“Thought I should know, classic.”

When he stills, she stills. Puts her hands on him, fingers twisting his threadbare t-shirt into her fists. Wants skin. Not him, singular. Not her, singular. Atoms. Bang. “Are we gonna do this or not?”

“‘Course we are.” Then, too sober, “To the end of the earth, girl.”

When she needs him to, he takes her there.

“Fuck ‘em,” he speaks for her in the dead of night as he drives, careless with the lit end of his cigarette. She watches it single-mindedly. “Everyone. Fuck everyone.”

And that bloody song on the radio: _Heaven, heaven is a place, where nothing ever happens._

They stink. An arm slung around her shoulders, she turns her face into his body and breathes in his smells, his sounds. Makes her quiet.

“I’m screaming,” she murmurs later in sucks along the slope of his bicep.

Hand in her hair, “Speak up, princess.”

“I’m screaming.”

He laughs.

Effy’s fingers swell up. He touches the dirty, reddened skin with a firm fingertip until the bloodless white the pressure causes spreads beyond his touch. 

“Huh,” he murmurs. “Feel that?”

No need to answer. 

He snaps his fingers an inch from her nose, the sound a thick crack. 

Oh. “Don’t feel anything.”

They sober up. Sex without the distraction is too much. Cook lasts longer, pays more attention to making her come. She closes her eyes and feels every inch of him slick with her. Every thrust down around him pulling out a new, wounded wheeze from his chest. Moves slow. Impossible to be mindless. She knows the light freckles that dot his cheeks, the full swell of his bottom lip. 

At a house party they drink themselves numb and piss their pants and stumble upstairs in search of a shower. When they find one, Cook throws all their clothes out the window while she runs the tap. It makes her smile as she tests the temperature with the back of her hand. Gets the water hot enough to scald her skin streaks of red. She isn’t worried. This is better.

The words are mocking but his voice is tender: “Yeah, yeah, you’re real tough man, girlie.” 

So she turns down the heat and they both climb in. Massages shampoo into his hair and strokes the strong, lean lines of his chest with soapy palms. Presses her clean cheek to his clean shoulder and sighs at how good it feels. He wraps his arms around her and they sway in the spray. 

It can’t last forever.

Years later, he tells her:

“I love you.”

Irritation flaring up, she responds with a simple, “Still?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Just now.”


End file.
